


more sex romp than spy work

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [9]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aural Voyeurism, Belly Dancing, Caught in the Act, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Mission Fic, Strip Tease, fun sexy times, jealousy as kink, roleplay for the purpose of the mission, they have so much heart eyes for each other people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: Mossad and the Egyptian Mukhabarat are skeptical of the KGB intelligence UNCLE passed on, so Illya must go undercover as a black marketeer in Cairo to admit to the imminent delivery of stolen Russian missiles. But Gaby won't hear of interrogation — she proposes, instead, that she should be the lucky agent to lure him into a honey pot confession.





	1. night one

**Author's Note:**

> ::blows party horn:: WE'RE AT 500 GALLYA FICS, PEOPLE! Not too shabby for a small fandom and a het ship. Keep 'em coming!
> 
> Subsequent chapters will hit some gallyakink prompts and then some.

17 AUGUST 1966

On a private jet scheduled to land in Cairo an hour before sunrise, two spies from UNCLE collude between furtive bouts of lovemaking.

Illya, trousers buttoned for the time being, reclines on a cabin bed so undersized that his knees have few places to go save for straight up. One of his hands is cocked behind his head, elbow a brace for narrow shoulders as Gaby peruses a French newspaper to get into character. Illya holds his other hand in front of his face the better to contemplate the teeth marks sunk into his palm. One more week apart and he might have had to let her draw blood to keep her cries from announcing their reunion activities to the small flight crew.

 _“Does it hurt?”_ Gaby slips one hand under the collar of his polo shirt to scratch along his chest.

 _“Not nearly as much as your absence,_ mon petit oiseau.” Had he dared such an ingratiating tone in English he would have cause to worry for his nipples. But learning French together has opened a new mode of expression between them, albeit one cloaked in satire.

As such, Gaby’s only retaliation is to peer over the newspaper and down her pert nose, cooing, “Mon nounours.”

Illya colors for wondering what he might find more mortifying — the sounds of Gaby’s pleasure carrying to the cockpit or the knowledge that she has taken to calling him her teddy bear. The dark gleam in her eye as she strokes his chest hair is clear warning that she is quite capable of mortifying him both ways at once.

A knock at the cabin door turns Gaby’s grin toward the partition. Illya tenses under her touch gone soothing. Among UNCLE’s core agents and support staff, the nature of their relationship is something of an open secret. While gossip spreading inside the walls of HQ is a nuisance, gossip spreading outside is a risk they don’t do enough to mitigate. Gaby reaches over to flip the lock switch and beckons, “Come in,” before Illya can finish sliding the hem of her loose shift dress between the crease at her knees. Her panties are tucked in his pocket, safely out of sight.

Through the partition comes a tray full up with dinner and documents wielded by a slender, well-dressed young man who closes the opening behind him. Illya relaxes a notch. Ehsan Mazdak was hired on Solo’s recommendation not least of all because he knows from experience the dangers of indiscretion in one’s personal affairs.

“Mazdak,” Gaby greets as he tactfully presents them with his back while he sets up the table across the cabin. “What would you say if Solo shared a plan with you that, for example, called on him to pose as a Russian black marketeer for the express purpose of becoming a target for Mossad and the Egyptian Mukhabarat?”

Illya shakes his head. His woman is a buzzard when she starts circling. Though he suspected even a plurality of orgasms would not be enough to distract her from her campaign to alter the mission specs, protocol be damned, it was well worth the try.

Disgust in her voice mounting, she continues, “And submitting to a perhaps brutal interrogation all for the worthy objective of corroborating intelligence that UNCLE freely passed on from the KGB to both intelligence agencies a week ago.”

Mazdak, the soul of even-handedness, replies, “Well, ma’am, I would begin by asking if there were not an alternative course to be considered.”

“Dozens at least.”

To his credit, when Mazdak turns to them he betrays neither a smile at Gaby’s tone nor Illya’s scoff. “In that case, I would make those inquiries that I believed would best appeal to Agent Solo’s preferences, as I humbly understand them, in the hopes that said inquiries might lead him to less unsafe alternative courses, thereby encouraging Agent Solo to dissuade himself.”

Illya’s low chuckle joins Gaby’s tinkling laughter. “You’ll be running UNCLE in ten years, Mazdak,” she tells him. “Mark my words.” Illya compresses his lips to keep his commentary to himself. He hopes UNCLE will be around in ten years, he truly does.

A touch of the jaunty personality Solo likes so well makes itself visible in Mazdak’s nod just before he excuses himself, lock sounding behind him.

“I am to appeal to your preferences, am I?” The baleful look Gaby casts down on Illya evokes a common scold.

“I’m not a masochist,” he defends himself. On his fingers, he ticks off, “Staging false interrogation worked in Lagos, in Johannesburg, in Río de Janeiro  — ”

Sharp nails sink into the flesh over his heart. “We found you half-dead in Río de Janeiro.”

Illya flattens her warm hand with his own over top his shirt. “That was THRUSH, personal. This is politics.” He grimaces.

Her frustration is not out of place. The entire mission would be unnecessary if Mossad trusted UNCLE to represent the KGB’s interests in Egypt fairly. But the state of Arab-Israeli relations continues to deteriorate and the Kremlin, decades removed from their allyship with the Zionists, is only exacerbating the situation. Politics being what they are, Mossad must believe they have verified the intelligence themselves, Mukhabarat must believe they are listening in undetected, and the KGB must be assured that nothing they have not willingly shared is at risk. ‘A tall order,’ is how Waverly described the mission. Gaby used choicer terms to brand it a disaster and Illya privately agreed. Regardless, the last thing this part of the world needs is stolen Russian missiles saturating the black market under the noses of squabbling bureaucrats. With the black marketeers spooked off the radar, it will be weeks before they approach their buyer in Cairo. On principle, neither UNCLE nor the KGB should be the lead on such an operation — complete waste of local resources.

“It will be fine,” Illya assures Gaby, outlining each of her fingers through the material of his shirt. “Dmitriy Vasilievich, he is soft. He will not hold up long. Three hours, five maximum.” Off her chiding, Illya injects even more pride in his voice to point out, “Besides, Agent Assia Mathieu of UNCLE will oversee interrogation. She will have pity for poor Dima.” He may have to take some punches, maybe a few dunks in a water tank. Stopping beatings, spilling poisons, turning the voltage down — Gaby has spared him before in much more dire circumstances.

Tossing aside her newspaper, she curls around his upper body like a shield. Illya could close his eyes and breathe her in, sleep awhile in her arms, but he knows that twist of her lips, wants it still. In Assia’s French-Algerian cadence, she purrs, “If you would like me to torture you, you need simply ask.” Covering his protest with her mouth, Gaby draws him in.

Without relinquishing her tongue, he takes her by the waist to maneuver her so her back is against his knees. Her thighs come down on either side of him, their still-slick juncture riding over his bared stomach.

When they come up for air, the spark of an idea he knows will be as brilliant as it is preposterous is lighting her warm brown eyes. “What about a honeypot?” she suggests.

“Out of the — ” he begins, but she thumbs over his lips.

Hers are stung plush from his kisses. “You’re forgetting. Agent Mathieu is really Dr. Mathieu. She might have developed a truth serum — perhaps activated by endorphins.” Gaby grins at his skepticism. “Darling, we’re UNCLE. If there were a rumor going round that we agents have laser beam implants in our eyes, the leaders of the intelligence community would demand full reports on their desks by Monday.”

“And Waverly would tell us all to wear sunglasses indoors to encourage them.”

Her brow lift tells him she didn’t miss the chastisement in his tone. Waverly’s man through and through, she chooses to ignore it. “Exactly.”

Illya chews his lip, would much rather be chewing hers. “You are suggesting we stage false honeypot.” Tactically speaking, compared to false interrogation, it is same end, different means. 

Gaby’s hum in the affirmative is far too innocent. They have fucked for listening ears before, a hazard of the profession, but surely she wouldn’t suggest they arrange things themselves? No, he assures himself, she is teasing him.

She shifts directly against his crotch, and Illya is already hardening again for her. Twenty days celibate used to pass in the blink of an eye. Now he is eager, so easily undone.

“Dima, you did admit, is a man of excess. He likes his drink and his shisha.” Gaby grinds down on him, covering his moan with her palm and dimpling for the reversal. “And his belly-dancing girls.”

The flush she has spread through him heats. Her name is all but a groan. He meant it to come out a refusal to allow other eyes to watch, other ears to hear what he covets for himself and himself alone. But less and less is he shamed by the throb of rushing blood even the specter of jealousy sends straight through him.

“Hush,” she says, knowing him, how best to appeal. She lifts up so he can free himself from his trousers and briefs. Bunching the hem of her skirt at her navel, she makes a show of parting her delicate folds with the head of his cock.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip in anticipation of her snug, wet heat engulfing him again so soon, but her powerful thighs keep him locked in at her entrance.

“Well? Have you dissuaded yourself?” Gaby demands.

Her clench and unclench around his tip shoots shivers down his shaft. Illya digs his toes into the thin mattress, his fingers into her supple calves to keep himself still. He nods. Eager. Undone already. Gaby claims his length with a swiftness that takes both their breaths.

“Good,” she pants, nose against his chin. She nips his bottom lip as she raises her hips, that perfect agony. “If I have to travel all this way to listen to you scream, it had better be for me.”

Clasping her palm to his open mouth, Illya thrusts up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (all from Google, so…):  
> mon petit oiseau: my little bird  
> mon nounours: my teddy bear


	2. night two

18 AUGUST 1966

Illya remembers to remove Gaby’s panties from the small pile of laundry he hands over to a stern-faced washer woman. He is sparing the woman’s Mideast sensibilities. He is keeping his cover.

He is fisting cream satin around his cock and thinking of how he will describe the sensation to Gaby when she demands it.

She will wear these panties for him when she does, tormenting with the same friction that drags him to the edge now. But on Gaby the fabric will be warmer, wetter. She may lean closer to encourage his confession — In the shower room? How efficient, she might tease. Always teasing yet so impatient. He will take her hips, let her ride over him until that ready look comes over her, then pin her down to set his own pace. Slow and hard, the way he drags his closed hand to his hilt and back again. He pictures his cock sliding through the notch in those dancer’s thighs, clamped tight with frustrated need. When Gaby is good, he will thumb her clit through satin. How long will it take her to come for him like that? He will draw it out.

When the mission is over, he will have her this way.

He could have her during the mission. Let her live the fantasy she is spinning even now.

At the reflexive jerk of his cock, Illya loosens his grip. This close to the edge he cannot stop a dark cloud of images from rolling in:

Gaby as Agent Mathieu explaining the honeypot to Mossad agents who shift in their chairs and steal glances.

Gaby as a half-French girl auditioning for work at Cairo’s most exclusive shisha bar, body scrutinized for its ability to inspire lust.

She will wear little beneath her belly dancer’s costume; no room for modesty where she must exude sin. What will go on in her mind, writhing under so many eyes? Will she be wet to the touch? Whose fingers will he have to break for daring to lay hands on his —

“Chert voz'mi.”

His own hands tick against the marble wall of the apartment's shower room, the throb of his cock dulling for the abrupt loss of pressure. Illya no longer fears the brutal edge of his lust but neither must he submit to it.

Instead, he concentrates on the smooth fabric bunched in his palm. Brought to his nose, the lingering scent of her conjures Gaby’s wickedest, most permissive smile. When the time comes, she will channel his failings into something that will secure the mission, let him live with himself. Give them something to get off to later, well away from prying eyes and ears. A balance of priorities.

Left hand steadied where it flexes on dry marble, Illya resumes rubbing himself through satin. He has her rasping whisper in his ear. ‘Hush,’ she so often quiets the riot in his mind. To his jealousy, she has had dozens of retorts, more or less patient, but he needs this one now: ‘Forget them. Make me glad I’m yours.’ When they parted on the runway, she smacked his ass and told him with a wink, ‘Do try and have some fun.’ He is overcome by a mosaic of the many times his woman has pulled herself from mindlessness to flash that game grin of hers and center him mid-stroke, remind him that they want for no one but themselves, for no other reason than pleasure —

With a groan so indulgent it is almost a chuckle, Illya soaks Gaby’s panties with his spill.

He cools his forehead on marble and turns on a spray of sun-baked water to further relax his muscles. By the time he is finished luxuriating in the shower, Illya is loose-limbed and ready to playact as Dmitriy Vasilievich for the night.

On the plane, they’d gone over Dima’s legend. The spoiled youngest grandson of a once-great captain of industry brought to the black market by his weakness for Western decadence. No taste, only the wrongheaded belief that a willingness to spend could be substituted for an eye for quality. Solo, phoning into New York from Tokyo, had supplied the labels required to bring the legend to life.

Illya knew from Solo’s keenness the clothes packed for him would be atrocious, so he had not dared open the second of his suitcases until now. Confronted by garish stripes and exaggerated lapels, he can only be grateful someone on the UNCLE staff spared him the indignity of ruffles. Illya parts his hair as Gaby instructed, using pomade to give himself that Dandy swoop so fashionable in London. He looks as ridiculous as the fancy boys do, more so for his build. The fabric of the suit breathes for end-of-summer Cairo, but, cut tight the way it is, he cannot move without exposing his every outline. Nothing to do save adjust his cock and make Dima all the more arrogant for it.

Illya douses himself in cologne and coats his mouth in vodka before ringing for a car. He rings the mission’s asset twice, hanging up on the second ring both times. Time to meet.  

Pietro is damaged goods, too much of a stool pigeon for any intelligence agency without UNCLE’s unmatched ear for truth and ability to corroborate to take his claims seriously. But among thieves his wet beak has gone unnoticed, so his introduction is enough to secure Dima a place at the table.

He makes the group an even dozen. Arab and Soviet scragglers, most of them, but four are legitimate diaspora mobsters. Two are eager to impress any representative sent by the big bosses. The third, Vlad, is unused to anyone flashing cash, swinging around a bigger dick. The final, Makar, either has a chip on his shoulder that Moscow is keeping him in the dark on the next shipment or knows better than to trust Pietro’s sweating hands and tapping foot.

Illya keeps eyes on Makar and Vlad even as he drinks black market liquor and smokes black market tobacco in the fading light, booming laughter and declaring all rounds on his employer. The Arabs love a good Ruski stereotype; the Russians can't resist a patriot leading them into rousing folk songs. Even in times like these, Illya has yet to meet the Russian glad to be separated from his motherland. Such a fate is only endured.

It is pitch dark before Vlad suggests they move on to a fourth locale. Illya puts slur into his words in protest that, from what he has seen, every hookah bar in Cairo is all the same shit. Vlad pounces on the opportunity to show off, pronouncing Club Sirri their next venue, just as Illya intended. Dima is promised top shelf vodka and top shelf women — and, honestly, Illya has stopped surreptitiously pouring out his drinks because he could maneuver this chessboard blind drunk.

The tall order part of the mission won’t start until tomorrow night. All he needs to do is make himself the obvious target for the honey pot operation; any intelligence the mobsters might provide about the Israeli buyer won’t be foolproof, letting Mukhabarat and Mossad wriggle off the hook in their haste to not work together. So Dima must stand out. And, for that, Illya needs a baseline buzz.

Vlad leads them into the aptly named underground club. Illya, who exited the limousine last, makes a show of buttoning his jacket with one hand and a sweeping his hair with the other. He takes his time going through both sets of double doors, ensuring they have to be held longer for him, that the women lounging at the front for effect notice the grin he shoots them and giggle under their sheer veils. Introduced to the concierge equivalent, he removes Vlad’s money clip from the small man’s pocket and replaces it with his own fatter wad, all genial smiles and brotherly insistence. Vlad is plotting his death, he is sure, but their arms are locked around each other in a face-saving show of affection. In the elevated VIP section, the concierge offers him the cushioned section with the best view in the house.

His coup d'etat takes an elegant three minutes. Illya hopes Gaby witnessed it. He would like it on record how effortlessly he out-Soloed Solo.

But Gaby is nowhere in sight. The belly dancing girls on the floor flit between platforms filled by groups of men along the spectrum of baby-faced to gray-bearded. There is an even ratio of foreign to domestic. The higher angle allows him a better vantage point to search for Gaby, but he spots instead what must be a trio of Mossad agents. Ruefully, Illya has to admit that Solo’s early criticism holds weight — nothing easier to finger than a spy incapable of approximating fun. He knows there must be at least one Mukhabarat agent at the club, but he will be a permanent fixture no more remarkable than the elaborate brass waterpipes on every platform, the grandest of which stands tall on his own.

He fills his lungs with mint-flavored shisha, idly watching a busty blonde take the stage to ardent applause, particularly from behind him. Makar takes a few slaps on the back as his due, evidently having some claim to the headline dancer.  

There is a simple explanation why Illya has not seen Gaby on the floor yet. She has gone undercover in dens like these before and told him there is always a strict hierarchy. The newest hires are not placed in too close a proximity to tips. Still he looks for her among the dancers and bottle girls, confident he will not miss her no matter how well her exposed bronze skin and teasingly veiled hair will blend.

Before he finds her, a velvet curtain sweeps the rest of the club out of view and another raises to reveal the concierge bowing to introduce the club’s owner and his wife. Lined up behind them are the five main acts from the night.

The blonde — a dye job, he can see up close — steps forward first. Makar straightens, but Vlad has already spun a plan for Dima’s downfall. _“Perhaps our guest might expect first choice?” ‘Expect’_ is well-chosen. Red-faced, Makar acquiesces in angry silence.

Illya uses his glassy stare to trail the woman’s well-proportioned features. “Nyet.” He flaps his wrist. _“I do not like fat women.”_

The blonde has enough Russian to understand the insult but enough professional pride not to twitch a muscle. Internally, she must be seething. He will send an expensive gift from an undisclosed admirer to soothe her pride and that of the two dancers he harshly rejects after her.

 _“She will do for tonight,”_ he says of the fourth, who bares a slight resemblance to Gaby. He is establishing Dima’s tastes and preferences.

The slender brunette takes a seat atop his lap and, suddenly, Illya is very grateful for the velvet curtain. He has given great consideration to his own jealousy but has made no contingencies for Gaby’s. A laugh barks out of him, a beat too soon for the bawdy joke being told. The outburst is hardly noticed, alcohol-drenched as he is — though still in full control of his faculties. He, too, is a professional and a Slav besides.

The woman on his lap speaks neither Russian nor French, but she simpers at his outrageous flirting all the same. One by one, the mobsters part with their women to rooms further underground. Illya shares another toast with his and promptly feigns passing out on her shoulder. The woman, he notes through his lashes, just rolls her dark eyes and finishes the expensive bottle without him. Illya is sure whatever else Gaby is doing she is making new friends.

He pretends to rouse when a couple of scragglers hoist his weight between them and walk him to the door. On the way out, Illya pats the concierge on the cheek, stuffs another money clip in his jacket pocket. He demands — and is promised — a haram’s worth of beautiful girls to wait on him the following night.

From behind beaded curtains, a half-dozen sets of kohl-lined eyes widen at the opportunity. The outlier set belongs to Gaby, brows slanted downward. She is not in costume, likely having spent the night slinging drinks for the dancers to take out on the floor. He blows a kiss. Only the girls around her giggle. His territorial little bird promises with her scoff that tomorrow night will be a tall order indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore all my expository attempts to justify this flimsiest of plots. Just know that I know that I am kidding no one, least of all my thirsty self. 
> 
> Translations:  
> chert voz'mi (черт возьми): Hell (exclamation)  
> sirri (سري): underground — apologies, I know sır is secret in Turkish so that seems close, but also I probably butchered that


End file.
